the soil turns easy
still wet from winter rain
hands on wood
sifting red
over black
over red
she sits on a pile of leaf compost
at the end of the row
and reads
lukewarm breeze
picks up raven hair
her words carry over me
the stroke of a lover
the rhythm of the soil
I stop to look up
feel the air thick
as it carries
her voice
away
heels buried in clay
I go back to work
excavate bones
long turned to nitrogen
seep into my pores
this unusually warm February afternoon
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